


Abandon

by rachg82



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 20:16:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4535850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachg82/pseuds/rachg82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-"The Blackout in the Blizzard":  Game Six of the World Series -- one perfect day in the eyes of a man who never truly got to be a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon

As I often do, I've included a song to set the ~mood~: 

 

( _Perfect Day_ , Lou Reed)

 

**And…GO.**

\---

When Booth was very young,  
he knew how to stand at attention,  
knew when it was time to lay low, how to creep along walls  
and crawl through the wreckage of a broken man's dreams.

(The shag carpeting is still there, albeit wavy & blurred now; far away -- a tattered white flag at the bottom of a bottle. If you close one eye, you can almost see it.)

He knew without thinking  
that when none of the above was enough,  
it would still be his fault.

It was his job  
to keep the shades drawn  
and his mouth shut,  
clearing a caged path for the fallen.

As the unofficial man of the house, he took it in stride.

He had to. There was no use tripping over the facts.  
There was normal -- and then there was Normal.

It was easy to read between the lines.

(Everyone told him what a good boy he was.)

The following morning, he'd bury his bruises beneath the bed,  
no longer afraid of monsters. 

But then, now & again, his dad would lift him up and place him in a red barber's chair--  
torn vinyl & duct tape around the edges, old men stitched together  
with aces & jacks & a tall tale or two,  
that long black cape circling his neck like a superhero--  
and he would let him spin,  
stopping him with two big hands across the shoulders  
like he had it all under control.

And they would watch as their reflection in the mirror stared back  
at them, knowingly, one generation to the next,  
and for some reason then it was enough.

For one split second, he was right there with him.

When he sat Seeley down later, told him how things  
were going to be different now,  
his son believed him.

He had no reason not to.

He'd been praying, lighting candles,  
dropping pennies into wells.

Surely, this was the reward he'd been waiting for--  
the climax of the story,  
his inevitable happy ending;  
the meek, at long last, inheriting the Earth.

(Surely, God doesn't lie)

For two straight weeks,  
he lurked behind corners,  
hypnotized & wondering.

Was this how it was going to be?

His father, eyes clear  
and close enough to touch,  
making breakfast in the kitchen,  
energetic like a puppy.

He had so much to make up for.  
There was no time to waste.

_You won't believe where we're going tonight…_

Two tickets clutched in a shaking hand;  
if you looked, really looked, you could see the effort it took  
just for this man to stand.

His children could climb him like a mighty sequoia,  
swinging from his arms like rowdy lumberjacks,  
but he'd never felt closer to the ground.

(He'd kept a flask hidden in the cellar -- just in case. It was still there, waiting for him.)

When they got to the stadium,  
Seeley held on to his father's sleeve,  
tailing him like an eager hawk, afraid to blink.

There was no more than a thin kite string bonding them together,  
and his father had been slipping away for years.

Eventually, he would lose sight of him completely.

Deep down, he knew this  
and always had,  
and so he held on tighter.

Decades later, after the proverbial dust had settled,  
he would prefer to remember only the simplest of things:  
the blue seats, the hot dogs, Pete Rose,  
& The Wave.

_October 21st, 1980. 11:29 pm. Game Six._

He would remember how it was past his bedtime when the Phillies won;  
how quickly he fell asleep in the car, & how he said  
he wasn't even tired;  
the way no one cared  
when he spilled hot mustard down the front of his shirt;  
and how it felt to merge with the crowd,  
thousands strong, standing as one,  
with just him & his dad at the center--  
instead of the other way around.

He was nine years old,  
and this was his one  
perfect day.

Just that;  
just them.

Now, as a father himself,  
no longer so very young,  
Booth still whispers prayers, still lights candles,  
and still drops pennies into wells.

Not for the man he struggles to be, or the one he's becoming,  
but for the man who almost was,  
and the one he still wishes  
he could forgive.

\---

**Fin**


End file.
